


A Portrait Worth a Thousand Word’s

by Regrettablewritings



Category: Batman v Superman, Justice League (2017)
Genre: F/M, Mostly Fluff, Slightest of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 04:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regrettablewritings/pseuds/Regrettablewritings
Summary: Bruce never really talks about his parents, not even withyou. But considering he keeps a portrait of them down a corridor of the Batcave, surely he must hold them closer than he lets in on. So why won’t he tell you about them, or how they might’ve reacted to you if they were still here today? Unless . . . Maybe they wouldn’t have thought so highly of you . . .?





	A Portrait Worth a Thousand Word’s

The portrait wasn’t the original – _that_ one had been one of the many things lost in the fire that claimed Wayne Manor. No, _this_ one was actually a copy that had once hung for many years at Wayne Tower in downtown Gotham. Of course, Bruce made sure that it had been replaced with a duplicate he’d commissioned, earning admiration from many who saw it as the act of a loving, successful son who was determined to always keep another legacy of his parents nearby.

It therefore puzzled you that he didn’t keep it aboveground in the Glass House but, instead, subterranean in the Batcave. It became even more perplexing when you realized that it was placed in a hallway that Bruce seemed to rarely walk down, quite possibly even finding alternate options to the route if he could. Most people would have a painting of their long-deceased parents somewhere in a common area or even private one; just somewhere where they could always see them and smile at them, maybe even hold a conversation. Then again, Bruce was not most people, being a tall, stupid-rich, former-playboy who moonlighted as knuckle-baring vigilante in a bat suit.

You simply followed his unspoken example.

It was easier for you to forego nearing or even traversing down the corridor than it was for Bruce, to the point that you only ever really saw the portrait from afar. The rare occasion wherein you would take a few steps down said hallway to observe the piece was the most you ever pushed, taking on your boyfriend’s habit as your own. To a degree.

Bruce himself never told you anything worth a detail about them besides the bare minimum. And whatever info you could pull from the only other nearby person who knew the couple was just as fruitless.

“That would be up to Master Bruce,” Alfred would say. But, being that “Master Bruce” never offered anything to you when it came to the subject (sometimes even dodging it entirely), you began to inherently take it upon yourself.

At a distance, from down the hall, it was easy to determine the characters of Thomas and Martha Wayne, who they would be if only they’d met you: Thomas, a hardworking man in his younger years, had become more lax in the autumn of his life. He would flirt harmlessly with you and slap congratulatory hands onto his son’s back, insisting on what a fine job he’d done to attract a true “gem of Gotham.” 

Martha, an elegant but kind woman, would be welcoming towards you, having brunch with you at a cafe downtown every Saturday so that you could catch up. She would insist that Bruce either move into a place with you downtown and to stop feeling so obligated to stay on Wayne territory. She and Thomas would insist that life changes when one falls in love …

Of course, there might have been some increasing levels of self-indulgence on your part, but such an act was so easy to do when staring at something from a distance. It is only when one day, you began to step closer to the subject than usual … That was when things become less romanticized and more grounded in reality, with every detail and every flaw in the previous assumption becoming more and more evident.

Thomas Wayne, a sharply-dressed man no matter where you stood, was definitely where Bruce had gotten his rugged good looks from. However, he also might’ve been where Bruce had inherited a look of perpetual sternness. A hard worker, certainly, but one with high expectations – about _everything_! Possibly even down to the person his son had chosen to be with … You could feel your lips press into a line as you continued to observe the dark eyes of the elder Wayne male. 

The Waynes, alongside the fruitfulness of their business, had managed to maintain a healthy line of wealth by marrying other members of elite society; what had you to offer, working a simple job downtown? Would he think that you were exactly what the paparazzi loved to insist that you were: a parasitic gold-digger?

As discomforted as you were at that thought, it didn’t compare to the feeling you got when you finally gathered the courage to look upon Martha Wayne. Martha herself was painted sitting in a finely carved chair that could’ve been bought through a high-end Sotheby’s auction. It paled in terms of beauty to the woman seated upon it.

If Thomas was where Bruce had inherited his looks and personality, Martha was surely where he’d gained his sense of grace and elegant flair from. The dark-haired beauty sat, poised and finely-dressed in a manner that made you question if she had just been a socialite or if she was truly a queen. Her pearls, simple if observed alone, caressed her neck and breastbone in a careful way that reminded you of classical paintings. 

But the crowning jewel of intimidation was the expression she eternally wore: Not one of malice or disgust, but one of sheer coolness. Like a woman made of iron hidden behind silk. Her countenance suggested a scary grace under pressure, an icy intelligence, an all-knowing one. Even the redness of her painted lips were classily poised as if in observance of all that she could survey, analyzing and judging every little thing. Including you, in all the moments you had stared at her and her husband from down the hall up to now as you stood directly in front of them.

Martha was, in a word, astonishing. You probably didn’t even need Bruce’s word for that, given the closeness he often allowed himself to suggest to you. But you never truly took the description or suggestion to heart until now. And you felt ashamed for it.

 _Would she have liked me, had she lived long enough to know me?_ you found yourself wondering. As your eyes traced her image over and over, taking note of her finely coiffed hair and queenly stature that shown even whilst sitting. Fidgeting with the hem of the old, baggy t-shirt you were currently wearing, you decided, in a barely audible whisper, “No.”

Mothers were often very protective of their sons, right? Particularly when it came to their child’s love interests? And considering the closeness Bruce had expressed in those brief moments you had to draw from, you had no doubts that she would have been no exception to the rule. In fact, was it fair to assume that she would be even more determined to protect her child from the clutches of a potential gold-digger? To assure that the family name was not carried on by some commoner?

Mothers were often very protective of their sons, right? Particularly when it came to their child’s love interests? And considering the closeness Bruce had expressed in those brief moments you had to draw from, you had no doubts that she would have been no exception to the rule. In fact, was it fair to assume that she would be even more determined to protect her child from the clutches of a potential gold-digger? To assure that the family name was not carried on by some commoner?

Even when you left the portrait and returned back to the Glass House, you could see their eyes boring into you. Eternally unblinking, forever able to judge you. Was it silly to feel judged by a painting of two long-gone people? Of course it was. But in a world where a godlike being flew around and knew your boyfriend was a man who dressed up like a nocturnal rodent, you felt that you were allowed this feeling.

Besides: Unconfirmed confirmation was always a good source of discomfort.

You tried to pretend as though you weren’t bothered; as though the walls of the Glass House didn’t make you feel vulnerable to the ever-watching eyes of “Thomas and Martha.” But in every little thing that you did, the sprout of criticism that had been planted earlier only seemed to grow closer and closer to a full blossom: “What ‘gem’ walks around the house in such rags?” “Why waste money going to brunch every Saturday at a fine establishment when all you would do is roll out of bed, put on the most basic thing, and then order the cheapest item on the list? If you’re not going to make an effort, then why should I?” 

You weren’t even sure if these words were being spoken in the voices of “Thomas and Martha.” All you knew was that you were beginning to believe them.

You mulled over “Thomas’” scoffing whenever you got out of bed hours after Bruce had left for work, critiquing that you needed to earn your keep and that late-starters never prospered honorably. You bit your lip and tried to control your breathing more appropriately whenever you felt a lecture on how “ladies don’t snore” was around the corner via “Martha.” But between the two, “Martha” was worse: You imagined “Thomas” being stoic, commenting on more general things; “Martha”, however, would nitpick. Nothing was up to standard for Bruce.

“If you’re not going to make an effort, then why should I?”  
You never offered an answer. You couldn’t, not when such a question would always, without fail, send you spiraling in to multiple spheres of thought at once. Why _should_ she make an effort? If you weren’t making an effort, then why was Bruce with you? Was it out of pity? Were you meant to be a temporary thing that just wouldn’t leave? What could you do to prove that you were worthy to a –

“Okay, I’m off to wor – You okay, babe?”

The voice snapped you out of your thoughts and back into reality. A reality where things _truly_ mattered. The main thing being Bruce, who stood in front of you, dressed smartly for work but with a look of slight concern etched into his fine features. You hummed for a split second before straightening your position at the table, remembering that you had been munching on toast before Martha’s criticisms on your plain tastes had thrown you into the recesses of your mind.

“I’m fine, just a little … Well, you know, it’s before 10 AM so I’m still a little out of it,” you said. You offered a wobbly smile in the hopes that it would seal confirmation. It didn’t.

“If something’s the matter, we can talk about it,” he offered, seemingly ready to take a seat next to you and put off work. 

Before the voice of Thomas Wayne could fuss at you for causing a distraction, you quickly insisted that that would not be necessarily and you truly were just tired.

 _Besides_ , you thought, _it’s not like I can talk to you about anything involving your parents …_ You felt guilty immediately after thinking so, but also knew it as the ugly truth.

You could tell from the stormy look in Bruce’s eyes that he wasn’t buying it. But, in the end, there was only so much he could do to convince you. never one to be forceful towards you in anyway, he accepted you claim. For now.

“Okay,” he sighed heavily. “Well . . . Call me if you need anything. And I mean it. Okay?” He leaned in and kissed your cheek.

The five minutes that followed were some of the most peaceful, clear moments you’d had since allowing “Thomas and Martha” inside your brain. You couldn’t smell anything but Bruce’s cologne, that smooth, mature smell that you’d grown to know by a single whiff and be calmed by in an instant. And your cheek was imprinted with the soft prickle of his stubble brushing against it when he kissed you. And if you focused just hard enough, you could still feel the small hints of warmth that had radiated off of his body to lightly embrace your own.

It was, in a word, bliss.

And at that moment, you had every answer you needed.

If Alfred, who had returned to his workshop before Bruce had left, had observed you – or if anyone who looked into the Glass House could – they would find you sitting at the table, quietly and still. Your toast, once again forgotten, lay on a plate, growing colder and colder. It would take 20 seconds for any real movement to occur, but even then it was subtle: the widening of eyes out of realization.

Realizing that Bruce was with you because he _wanted_ to be. Realizing that in the end, even if Thomas and Martha _were_ still alive, it wouldn’t matter what they really thought of you because all that mattered was what _Bruce_ thought of you. But, perhaps most important of all, was the moment of realizing that “Thomas and Martha” were exactly that, quotations and all: Nothing more than figures you self-imposed out of worry, out of lack of confirmation.

It seemed so silly to have doubted any of this in the first place, you almost had to laugh. Almost. Because was from this sense of newfound stability that you decided, once and for all, to silence the criticisms.

You now knew how to prove yourself to “Thomas and Martha”, how to shut them up once and for all: You were going to make an effort.

+++++++++

 _Imight’ve overdone it_ , you thought to yourself as you stared in the mirror. You were only going down into the Batcave to see a painting. But you were so used to dressing for galas and charity balls that you supposed your makeup and dress patterns were either downgraded casual or extremely glamorized: You had curled your hair to perfection, applied your makeup sharply and with prestige. 

The dress you wore, which you meant to have been a simple but classy black dress, hugged your curves in a more fashionable and seductive way that you initially had planned. But the literal crowning jewel: a white gold necklace with a garnet pedant. It had been Martha’s, one of the very few things Bruce managed to salvage. You wanted to show that you were an important piece in Bruce’s life.

You looked stunning, if you had to say so yourself. But, in the end, this _might_ have been overdoing it. Nevertheless, you willed yourself to walk down to the portrait, making sure to walk so lightly in your heels that Alfred would not be able to hear you from his working nook. Willing yourself to do what you proposed next, however, took a bit more effort.

“Uh … Hello,” you said quietly to the picture. You inwardly pressed both palms to your face. So much for presenting yourself as calm and confident. Thomas and Martha’s expressions did not falter. You took a deep breath and tried again, this time with more stability. But only a bit. “My name is (Y/N). Though I guess you guys already knew. Because I’m dating your son.” Better, but …

You sigh. “This is weird; I know it’s weird. But people talk to graves and pictures all the time. Though, I guess it’s kinda different considering that that’s usually done by those who actually knew the person … and … I never got to know you guys …” You pressed your lips together in thought.

“I mean, I would’ve _wanted_ to know you guys. I still do! You guys seemed like nice people, like you were connected with the people more than most wealthy people probably would be. At the very least, you tried to be. Tried to give regular people like me better opportunities. But … That’s just what I got from old news. I mean, I would’ve loved to know more about the real Thomas and Martha. But Alfred’s not saying anything and Bruce … Well, he won’t tell me about you guys …” It was at this point that your thoughts shifted.

“He’s a good man, by the way. A bit questionable, but … But I think you guys would be proud of him. At the very least, you’d be proud of what he’s trying to do.” You offered a small smile, a habit of yours when you thought about your lover’s accomplishments. “He does so much for this city. Both as Bruce Wayne and Batman.” You paused. 

“Thought you ought to know; I don’t think he comes down here that much to talk to you guys and tell you about what it’s like out there.”  
“But, like, he goes the extra mile in terms of what he could be doing: He’s trying to give Gotham a better reputation by introducing the arts more, Mrs. Wayne. He even has a Zorro festival every year in your memory. Oh, and Mr. Wayne, he’s running the business pretty well for what it’s worth. I mean, we’ve taken some hits but … But I think you’d be impressed with how resilient he’s being!” 

You couldn’t help but puff your chest slightly with pride. “But then he’s also running around like a bat – Mrs. Wayne, you’d probably be appalled at how he looks – and making sure that Gotham is a little safer every night. I mean, it isn’t perfect but I like to think that it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Thomas and Martha said nothing. So you continued.

“But in the end, the fact that he’s managed to do all this because of you guys? It really says something about him. I know that what Bruce is doing may not be ideal; it’s definitely questionable, no doubt about that. But in the end, I can’t help but feel proud of him. And really lucky. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he’s a Wayne: It’s because in spite of everything that he does, he always has the time to assure to me that I’m just as much a part of his life as his jobs are. 

“Sure, things may get shuffled around, but Bruce always makes sure to make me happy. Even when he’s not trying …” Your voice trailed. You began to pluck at your necklace. Your initial goal of coming down to prove your worth wound up becoming a total gush-fest revolving around Bruce; where were you to go with this?

“Talking to a painting, are we? Am I going to have to put you in Arkham, too?”

The sudden sound of the man of the hour’s voice startled you to the point of accidentally slamming yourself against the hallway wall. When you managed to compose yourself after a slew of curses, you realize he was standing behind you, a small smirk teasing his lips. Damn him and his stealth skills.

“For god’s sake, Bruce, what the hell?!” you demanded. The smirk that teased came into full fruition; even in the dim lighting, Bruce could see the hints of blush leaking into your cheeks.

“I honestly could ask you somewhat of the same thing. I mean, walking quietly is something I can’t help. But talking to pictures? Sounds more like a personal problem,” he joked.

You scowled and crossed your bare arms, trying to think of a comeback to throw him off. Unfortunately, you were nowhere near as well-versed in the art of taunting as the former playboy was.

“I was … I was just – ” you stammered, at a loss for words. But Bruce waited for your answer patiently, never rushing you. Typical Bruce. And yet, you found yourself surprised when, upon being able to be told the wider concept of your plan and what led to it, his stance barely wavered. 

Sure, the smirk fell into a more serious expression, but it wasn’t one that portrayed bemusement or even necessarily an upset. It was more along the lines of the expression one might gain when lingering over another’s words; when they are in a position to strongly consider the discussion at hand.

When he said nothing at the end of your explanation, you couldn’t help but worry a bit. Was he understanding of your outlandish attempt at coping? The small hum he uttered was the only thing he said at first. His eyes flickered between the painting of his parents, and yourself. Between their perpetually impeccable stances, and your smaller, sheepish one.

“… Well …” Bruce began, the small word ripping through the still air. He kept his eyes focused on the painting, as if trying to stay focused both in the real world and the one inside his mind. “For starters, I don’t think my parents would’ve necessarily liked you …” In that moment, you could feel your heart slump. If their son, the only other person around to truly know these people, was telling you this, then surely it must be true … 

“… My father would have loved you, and my mother would _adore_ you. Probably a bit too much; I remember Alfred telling me once that she wanted a girl around, but then they had me and … Well …”

Your head snapped up, eyes widened. Bruce’s own eyes were fixed on you in thoughtfulness. He observed the dolling up you had put yourself through.

“She’d like your style,” he added. “And the moment you’d open up that mouth to say a witty comeback or anything? She’d probably ask me to just take _your_ surname instead of the other way around.” He grinned.

Wait … Seriously?

“Seriously,” Bruce confirmed, being able to tell that that was exactly what you were thinking. He turned his attention back to the portrait and pointed a finger at his father. “And my father most certainly would do a little harmless flirting with you. After all, where do you think I get it from?” (He heard you gently scoff with amusement.) 

“Buuut … I don’t think he’d call you a ‘gem’ of Gotham. Maybe a blessing to the Wayne family. Especially considering me.” He looked down you with an expression accepting light self-deprecation, not minding it at the cost of the subtle but growing glowing that was beginning to radiate from your person.

You liked this. You liked hearing that Thomas and Martha (the real ones and not the ones you’d been haunted by) would have enjoyed your presence. You loved hearing Bruce actually say anything about them at all. You wanted more of this, wanted to know what Thomas and Martha liked to do, what Bruce suspected they might have done when he graduated college (clap politely at the ceremony, or scream in jubilation and a chorus of “atta boy”s). 

If they liked to sit in the kitchen with Alfred back in Wayne Manor and take drinks of aged spirits when little Bruce had been put to bed, if Martha enjoyed tea or coffee, if Thomas liked sports or was more bookish –

But when Bruce offered no more, you surmised that perhaps the information given had been all that he could handle. What kind of person would you be, to push and demand for more, after everything he’d just told you?

“Anything else?” Bruce asked. The question hung in the air.

By instinct, you took it. And without thinking, you responded with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” When you realized how overly eager you must have sounded, you couldn’t help but draw back and blush with embarrassment. Bruce, however, merely chuckled lightly in response.

“Figured as much …” He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I guess, uh … I guess it’s only fair. That I say a little about the people who made me.”

“Just a little.”

“Well … Come on,” he said, placing a hand on the small of your back. He began to lead you back down the hallway and toward the stairs leading back up to the Glass House. “We’re gonna need to sit down for this. I get the feeling you have a lot to ask.”

“You bet I do! Do you dress like your dad? What kind of perfume did your mom use? Do you remember? Would you say I’m like your mom? Would she go to brunch with me, even if it was at a small, cheap café? Do you think your mom would be the embarrassing kind, or the elegant, cool kind? What – ”

“Okay, okay, slow down! We’ll have plenty of time to talk about all that …”

You smiled blushingly, uttering a small shrug. But then a realization had occurred to you for the umpteenth time that day.

“Wait … It’s not even 3 yet – why are you home from work so early?” you inquired.

Bruce shrugged, gently leading you up the stairs. “I didn’t buy your claim that you were ‘just tired.’ It’ll be fine. Besides, if what you told my father is true, business is fine enough for me to take a day off. This is more important.”

You couldn’t help but offer a full-fledged, appreciative smile. Typical Bruce. His parents would be proud. A little hesitant at first, but proud in the end. 

You would at least have that in common.


End file.
